In the wee hours, but not quite dawn,
I walk up to the 24-hour grocery for a fat
Sunday Times, passing a tousled-headed blonde
Who’s probably hoping for one last trick
As she waits for the BART to open.
She’s unpainted, almost waif-like.

I imagine a tiny place in the East Bay, maybe
A part-time weekday job, and two small children
Home asleep, entwined in each other’s arms.
There’s rent to pay, utilities, and because
there’s no one else, she must remember
To stop at the corner bodega for groceries.

Back home, I note the window across the street.
He has company: a tousled-headed blonde.
She stands under the bright overhead and he lazes
Against the pillows, waving his arms, orchestrating.
The budding film director who wrote the script.
She walks to the window and closes the curtains.